"Don't you like wimmen?"
"Sure do. Admire 'em pow'ful. Never met the one I'd want to tie to, that's all, Molly."
"None of 'em pritty enough?"
"Pritty? Shucks! Looks don't count so all-fired much. The woman I most admired was the wife of ol' Pete Holden, a desert prospector an' drifter, like yore dad, Molly. She was old an' tough an' wiry, like he was. I don't figger she'd ever have taken a blue ribbon in a beauty contest, but she was like first-grade linoleum, the pattern wore clean through an' the stuff was top quality. She'd drifted with Pete over most of Idaho, Colorado, Wyoming, Utah, Arizony, Nevada and paht of New Mexico an' Texas, an' she warn't jest his wife, she was his pal an' fifty-fifty partner. Pete said the on'y time he ever knew her to hold out on him was once in the Cañon Pintada when he woke up in the night and saw her pourin' water out of her canteen into his. Nothin' pritty about Kate Holden, but she was full woman-size from foot callus to gray ha'r, back to back with Pete all the time she wasn't standin' side of him."
"She warn't eddicated?" asked Molly.
"She was. Some thought it funny, for Pete was no scholar. I've listened with him, more'n once when she'd tell us things about plants and insects, or about the stars, things we'd never dreamed of. They say she c'ud play the pianny an' she sure c'ud sing. Ask Sam about that. But Pete was her man an' she was his woman, so they trailed fine together."
"I see," said Molly. "She loved him."
There was a peculiar quality to the tone of the girl's voice. It was not the first time that Sandy had noticed it, lately wondering a little, not realizing that his own observation was a recognition based upon response. Now he figured that the low softness of her speech was due to her tired condition and a little wave of tenderness swept him, blent with admiration of her pluck. Saddle-racked, nerve-tried, she had never murmured, never mentioned the trials of the trail.
They entered the little town, once a cattle station, now renamed in musical Spanish, Caroca,—A Caress—a spot where fruits were grown and shipped and flowers bloomed the year round wherever the water caressed the earth. Sandy rode the mare into the livery where the last skirmish between hoof and rim, iron and rubber tire was being fought, and called for "Chuck" Goodwin.
A stout man came out, not so heavy, not so big as Mormon, but sheathed in flesh with the armor of ease and good living. He peered up at Sandy, then let out a shout.